The Glass and The Floor
by nyssa123
Summary: "Why didn't you call? Do you have ANY idea what I just went through!" Sherlock doesn't call John when the flat explodes. John is displeased. Written for the LiveJournal kinkmeme. Hard slash.


Written for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink meme on LiveJournal. I figured I'd post it here as well.

BEWARE! Here there be pr0nz. Sexy, sexy m/m pr0nz.

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Rating: R

Itsy-bitsy spoilers for ep. 3, "The Great Game".

When Sarah turns on the telly, home is the last thing that John expects to see.

His heart drops into his stomach like a lead ball. As he shrugs on his coat frantically, everything runs through his head at once, a flood of data and images and words.

_Explosion… Baker Street… apartment… destroyed… emergency number… friends and family…_

_**SHERLOCK.**_

Before he knows it he's down the stairs, and Sarah is going to have to wait for breakfast because he's running, running, running, and the burn in his leg and his shoulder mean nothing, the burn in his lungs even less. He trips over his shoelaces twice on the way there and almost gets hit by a car while he's sprinting through a green light- the driver shouts a word you can't say on television but John doesn't hear it. He can't, because the blood is pounding in his ears and blocking out everything.

He turns the corner and sees the hole, the plaster coating the sidewalk like fallen snow. There are bits of cement strewn across the road and bright yellow police tape circling, circling, going on forever.

He pushes through the crowd, shoving the rubbernecking bystanders with more force than is strictly necessary, the words rolling off his tongue and through his lips, a mantra to stop him from losing his mind entirely.

_Please please please PLEASE_

He ignores the policemen in their stupid lurid orange jackets and their stupid pointy hats and tugs open the door of 221, muttering something to keep them off his back. Something about _here, I live here, my house, MY flat, MINE…_ He can't be bothered to keep track of the words, the things he says.

His feet drum on the stairs like rain on a tin roof, fast and hurried and he's calling for him, calling his name, and his eyes are wide with fear and _there's no answer _and the panic is building, building, about to burst-

And Sherlock is sitting in the armchair with his violin, looking rather bored and slightly miffed in his rumpled black suit, with Mycroft sipping tea in the seat across from him. He glances up from the instrument to John as he stands in the doorway, panting, leaning against the wall heavily.

"John." He says nonchalantly, before turning back to the violin to pluck a single apathetic A-string.

John tries to slip into a calm tone of voice as he asks Sherlock if he's okay, tries to slow his breathing to make himself seem less winded. Sherlock waves it off with a "Fine" and returns to his argument with Mycroft, and John is left standing, always in the dust, with the shattered glass around his feet and motes of plaster drifting through the air around his face.

Mycroft leaves, smarmy as always, and Sherlock glares after him, torturing the violin angrily. Part of John wants to ask him why he's turning down the case (because it's not like they need anymore holes in the walls, the flat's ventilation is just fine, thank you) but the other, bigger part of him is still running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, having hysterics. John decides to go with his chicken half, and stomps over to Sherlock. He grabs the violin out of his long, pale fingers and throws it onto the couch. Sherlock makes a sharp sound of disapproval and reaches out, half-standing up from the chair.

John slaps him before he can stop himself. The loud crack rings through the apartment and Sherlock's head snaps to the right. The lanky detective stumbles, almost falling over the coffee table, and presses a hand to his swiftly reddening cheek. He looks over at John in disbelief.

"What was that for?"

The panic and fear that the doctor was feeling on the way over have been replaced with anger now, and he can feel himself losing any composure he might have gained with Mycroft in the room.

"You _idiot_!" he yells. "You couldn't have called, or sent a text? Maybe, 'Hey, John, the flat's exploded, thought you might like to know'?" he grabs Sherlock by the lapels and shoves him against the wall. "I saw it on the TV, Sherlock! I had NO IDEA what happened!" he slams him back hard, knocking his head against the pockmarked wallpaper, roaring. "_Do you have any idea what I just went through?"_

Sherlock stares down at him, his pale eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. "I don't- I didn't-"

"Well you should have!" John drops his head, bunching up fistfuls of Sherlock's jacket as he presses his face against the taller man's chest. There is silence in the stillness, their bodies pressed against the wall.

Sherlock speaks slowly, awkwardly. "Nothing was damaged except the windows."

"I don't care about the bloody windows." John's voice is muffled, his eyes still squeezed shut. His curled up hands are trembling and his bad leg twitches spasmodically.

"No one was hurt." Sherlock sounds confused.

"I didn't know that."

"I-"

"I didn't know if you were hurt, or missing, or dead…" John's voice cracks a little on the last word, and he tries to cover up with a loud, "you IDIOT."

Sherlock is thinking. "You didn't sleep with Sarah."

"Of course I didn't sleep with Sarah." He doesn't bother asking how he knows.

"You were really worried about me?"

"Yeah. Yes. Yes, I was."

There is silence again for a moment before Sherlock says, "I'm sorry."

John lifts his head and looks into his flat-mate's eyes, his _friend's_ eyes, and he sees that he means what he says. Before he can think better of it John stands on his toes and kisses him. Sherlock kisses back, and it's chaste and simple and a little bit shocking for the first few seconds.

And then there's a wave of _something _that washes over them and suddenly the kiss is all teeth and tongues, and John's hands are in Sherlock's hair, tugging him down to his level, down to the floor and Sherlock is flat on his ass, back pressed against the wall, and John is straddling him.

They break apart gasping and begin undressing each other frantically, John's fingers popping the buttons of Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock fumbles with John's leather jacket. The doctor leans in and nips along his throat, his hands pressed against Sherlock's pale ribs, his thumbs rubbing circles in the soft, warm flesh. Sherlock groans and reaches for John's fly, struggling with the zipper before finally undoing it and slipping a hand past the waistband. John lets out a moan as Sherlock cups his hardening cock through his underwear and pushes the detective to the floor.

Sherlock yelps as his bare skin makes contact with the floor. "John- glass…"

John pulls back. "Sorry." He grabs for his discarded jacket and Sherlock lifts himself up on an elbow as he lays it down on the floor beneath him. "Better?"

"Much." He presses his lips against John's once more, sloppy and frantic, and brings his hand back to John's pants. John returns the favor, pulling down Sherlock's trousers. The detective makes a startled noise as John grabs his thighs, yanking his legs up and over his shoulders, which are still covered by his half-unbuttoned red shirt. John sticks his fingers in his mouth, coating them with saliva before sliding one into Sherlock, who arches up off the floor, babbling something about how he can tell by how John takes good care of his fingernails that he's an extremely competent doctor. John slips in another finger and the babbling turns into straight-up swear words.

Sherlock's hands knead the jacket like a cat's paws, scrabbling against the silk lining, searching for purchase. With his free hand John pins one of them to the ground, trapped like a pale, elegant insect. When John replaces his fingers with his cock Sherlock lets out a gasp and throws an arm around the doctor's neck, pulling him close as he thrusts in jerkily, teeth set on edge as Sherlock clenches around him hard. Their movements stir up the ash and plaster on the floor and it rises, drifting around them and settling in their hair, light against Sherlock's dark curls, stuck in the sweat glistening on his bare chest. His mouth opens in a silent exclamation as he comes, spurting across his belly and John's shirt, his nails digging into the doctor's shoulder. John doesn't take much time after, spilling into the damp, tight heat of Sherlock, his body wracked with shudders.

They collapse in a heap, shifting to avoid the shards of glass strewn across the floorboards, a tangle of limbs and sweaty cloth and debris. They are silent for a long time.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. It's okay now."


End file.
